New Fic: A Study in Winning (4/10) part 2 of 2
A Study in Winning
4/10 - part 2
Previous part
*
“It was a car accident,” he finally said.
It had been the best part of forty minutes since Sherlock had arched over him and shuddered his way through orgasm. It was by far the most number of words either of them had said in that time, certainly in one go, most probably combined.
Shaking through the last vestiges of their climax they had clutched at each other wordlessly, the only sound the harsh panting as each tried to suck in enough air to fill their abused lungs. It was a moment, it was a thousand years, and then Sherlock was softening within him. The dark head of faintly damp hair lowered and he felt the warm breath against his shoulder before the brief soft caress of the Frenchman’s lips. Then Sherlock was pulling out, pulling away, dealing quickly with the condom before it became an issue.
Sherlock then disappeared, but returned shortly with a damp towel and a neutral but relaxed expression. He cleaned them both before straightening the bed covers somewhat and crawling in beside him, tugging the top sheet up and over them. There they lay, both thinking, neither speaking, the initial no touching turning into careless brushes until finally Sherlock’s fingers reached over to trace the faint scar on his shoulder, running along it and then back.
He could feel the unasked question, but in the growing dark and with the lethargy in his bones he had no way of fighting it, or at least no reason to. So closing his eyes he let the fingers trace their path and started to talk.
“But you already knew that,” he continued. “Everyone knows that. I was in a car accident and I almost completely wrecked my shoulder. I was out for a year and when I came back after months of rehabilitation, retraining and therapy, I was never quite the same. John Watson, the almost was.”
He let his voice trail off as the memories threatened to overwhelm him. The fingers though didn’t stop moving and focusing on that he pulled himself back.
“I crashed the car,” he finally said. “Everyone calls it an accident, and it was, I certainly didn’t plan to crash, but you never really plan these things, they just happen.”
Sherlock said nothing. He was glad for that, it was easier this way.
“His name was Bill. He was a friend, just a friend mind, but a good friend. My closest mate perhaps. We met randomly, through a friend of a friend, you know how it is. He was fun, the life and soul, larger than life sort of guy. We did stupid things together, pulled pranks, drank too much, that sort of thing. He was my wingman. Then I started to make it with my tennis and Bill qualified as a nurse, but we kept in touch. Went out for drinks when we could. He’d tease me about anything, asked me to set him up with a pretty blond Russian, that sort of thing. Then he surprised us all when he signed up for the army.”
More than a surprise, but that was Bill for you.
“We kept in touch still, then one day when I was back from having made it to the quarter finals in Australia, he told me they were shipping him out to Afghanistan and how fucking hilarious was that? Him in Afghanistan?
“We laughed about it, slapped him on the back, bought more drinks and life went on. I went to France, he went to Afghanistan. I played tennis, he saved people’s lives. I knocked balls around courts and complained about dodgy line calls, he knocked ration packs around and dodged bullets.
“Then I remember I was eleventh in the world and was about to break into the top ten for the first time. I was through to the last eight at the Valencia Open and everything was going well, then I got a phone call from Fiona, Bill’s long term girlfriend. Bill had been killed while travelling from Kandahar to Kabul.
“I remember sitting there with my phone in my hand no idea what to say. I mean, what do you say to something like that? Bill was dead and there I was alone in a bloody posh hotel room in Spain. I ended up hitting the bottle, because I had no idea what else to do, and because it’s always been a habit in my family. Have a problem? Drown it in alcohol. But even that wasn’t enough and I just needed to get away.
“I grabbed the car keys. It was a hire car, German make probably, can’t remember and it doesn’t matter. To make things worse I was tired, grieving and not exactly cold, hard sober, although it had only been the one beer. I really knew that I shouldn’t but I was alone and needed to escape and there was no one there to tell me how stupid I was being.
“Thank god there was no one else around. I knew the moment I lost control. In that split second as the car started to spin I knew that that was it. I was certain I was about to die. In that instant I remember saying, ‘Please God, let me live.’ Then the car smashed into that tree.
“They told me I was lucky it was just my shoulder I busted. Serious but there was every chance I would recover enough to play again. Play again? As if that was the most important thing. Bill was dead and the most important thing in my life was how well I could hit a yellow ball with a racket. I suppose that was when I lost it. Tennis didn’t mean quite so much anymore. Not compared to life and death. I only went back to it because I had nothing else, it was everything I knew. So here I am, finally at the end of my career and I have no idea what I’m going to do.”
He scrubbed his hands across his face.
He had never told anyone all of that, not Harry, not Mike, not even his therapist. They all knew the facts of course, but no one had ever put the whole thing together. Tennis was his life, had been for 25 years, it just wasn’t, well, life or death.
Sherlock’s fingers left his shoulder and he felt the other man shift against him. They lay like that in silence, in the dark, close but not quite touching.
“Jim Moriarty is the reason for all my security,” Sherlock finally said breaking the stillness. “He’s the reason for most of my brother’s concern. He’s the reason I lost the French Open.”
John remembered the French Open final. It had been Sherlock verses Moriarty, with the Frenchman tipped to win in front of his home crowd, wanting to win, expected to win. Instead Moriarty had won, beating Sherlock in four sets, the last one completely destroying the Frenchman’s game.
“I’ve been receiving phone calls, letters, notes, messages, texts, everything. It’s like he’s obsessed with me. Ever since…” his voice trailed off.
“A few years ago he approached me with a proposition. He wanted the two of us to team up as a doubles pair. It was only a few months after I had parted from my previous doubles and practice partner. I, of course, told him I wasn’t interested. I wanted to concentrate on my singles play. Doubles had given me more exposure in competitions, and as such more experience, but once I was reaching quarter and semi-finals I didn’t need it any more. It had become more of a hindrance than a benefit. So I declined his offer. It was hardly a difficult choice. He, however, has apparently taken it rather badly. He is under the impression we would have been unbeatable, dominating the doubles and topping the world ratings for both doubles and individuals. He is possibly correct, but one of us would have had to have come second. Something that neither of our egos would have been able to cope with.”
His voice trailed off and they continued to lay there, each minute that past drifting them closer and closer to sleep.
“John?”
He pulled himself just far enough out of sleep to respond with a, “Hmmmm?”
There was another pause where he wondered if Sherlock had changed his mind or had maybe fallen asleep himself. Then he heard it.
“Thank you,” he heard softly. “For telling me about your shoulder.” And then that was it.
“That’s okay,” he mumbled in return. “It’s okay,” and then it was over, their conversation in the dark over and they finally succumbed to sleep.
*
“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock suddenly said out of nowhere.
They were in the main room, Sherlock having been sat in an armchair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin in silence for the past half an hour at least.
“Hmmm, yes,” John said, carefully putting down the mug of tea he had just made the other man. “My next opponent. What about him?”
He took a seat in the other chair, sipping his own drink. He was feeling remarkably fine following the events of the night before, any residual twinges or discomfort having already faded, partially helped at least by the proficient blowjob Sherlock had treated him to that morning. He had wanted to return the favour but Sherlock had said it wasn’t necessary and not on the day before a match anyway. That had at least confirmed it to be their last sexual encounter of the weekend, although he deeply hoped it would not be their last ever. That, on the other hand, could well depend upon him managing to beat his next opponent, one Victor Trevor.
“What do you know about him?” Sherlock asked.
He shrugged. “Australian. Twelfth seed. Right handed. Two handed backhand.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “Ever played him?”
“Couple of times.”
“And?”
“He beat me, both times.”
“Surface?”
“Hard, I think.”
“You think.”
He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Alright, yes, fine, hard, both times.” Once in Australia, once in Toronto if he recalled correctly.
Sherlock’s lips curled up. “Good,” he said. He went back to his thinking before suddenly getting to his feet, crossing the room and riffling through a box. After a moment he seemed to find what he was looking for, pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and slapped something onto his forearm.
John stared not quite believing what he was seeing as Sherlock then flung himself back down, fingers once more back under his chin.
“Is that,” he started, “is that a nicotine patch?” He hoped it was because the alternatives were far, far worse.
“Yes,” Sherlock said bluntly. “Helps me think.”
Right, he thought, tapping his fingers against the chair arm. “You smoke?” he said more out of surprise and the need to say something that anything else.
“No, I patch,” Sherlock said. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in professional sport now days.”
“So you, uh, used to smoke?”
“Remnants of a misguided youth. I fortunately discovered a rather different and more pleasurable distraction before I could succumb to experimenting with harder and more dangerous drugs than tobacco.”
“Harder drugs?” he repeated. “What like heroin or cocaine you mean?”
“Cocaine most probably,” Sherlock admitted easily. “Heroin has never interested me.”
“Right,” he said. “Had much of a wild youth then?”
“Not compared to some and hardly as wild as it could have been.”
“And the distraction you found?” he asked. “Tennis?”
“Sex.”
“Right.” He really shouldn’t have asked. “Okay.”
“Victor Trevor.”
He blinked as his brain took a moment to follow Sherlock’s change in topic.
“Twenty-seven years old, six foot one, no Grand Slams but finalist in Australia in 2002 and 2004. Nine career titles, highest ranking fourth in the world, 2004. Good accurate serve but not the fastest, so therefore returnable. High first serve percentage, quick player with good overall court skills and excellent long forehand. Weaknesses include close net play and frustration leading to unforced errors in longer rallies. Prefers hard courts, not the best history on grass but will be going into the match the clear favourite and therefore expected to win. That can be used against him, but it could take time and perhaps luck, but is by no means impossible.”
Sherlock returned to his fingers to under his chin.
“That’s brilliant,” John said, tea forgotten as he stared at the Frenchman.
“Obvious,” Sherlock said.
“Maybe, but how do you know all that?”
“I am very familiar with his history, style and game,” Sherlock said. “For a while we were partners.”
Partners? “Uh, when you say partners, is that practice, doubles or uh, you know, off the court.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said in what he was obviously meant to take as the answer to all three. “Problem?”
“No,” he said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. “So you’re giving me advice on how to defeat your ex?”
Sherlock made a disagreeing sound. “Stop sentimentalising it. This is to do with benefits and convenience. It is in both of our best interests that you win and proceed to the next round. Who your opponent is is of little relevance in this respect. Don’t cloud it with unnecessary emotion. To do so is both distracting and dangerous.”
“Okay,” John said. “So tell me, how would you suggest I beat him, taking into consideration that he’s younger, fitter and faster than me.”
“But not necessarily better,” Sherlock added. “He is faster yes, but he will tire and when he does he makes mistakes. Play short shots, pull him into the net where he is weakest. Make him play the game he doesn’t want to. Be patient in rallies, don’t go for the quick risky shot, play safe and steady. The longer the rally goes on for the more likely he is to try something and make a mistake. When you find what works keep doing it. Try always to return, this will frustrate him, but return only within reason. There is little point in exhausting yourself senselessly. Frustrate him and when he finally cracks, watch his game deteriorate and drive home the advantage.”
When he said it all like that it sounded so very simple.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” John said. “Thanks.” Then, “Who are you playing?”
“Jefferson Hope.”
The name rang a bell. “Small guy, crafty, plays as if you have an option of shot but somehow always seems to know which one you’re going to make?”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said clearly in thought.
“Every played him before?”
“First time for everything.”
“Think you’ll beat him?”
“Undoubtedly. I just have to figure him out.”
With that Sherlock grabbed his laptop and started pulling up video files, scribbling away on a notebook with a frown.
John left him to it, interrupting him only to put a Greek lettuce and couscous salad with a selection of cold meats and cheeses in front of him for their lunch. Sherlock’s thanks was vague, consumed as he was with his work, but he ate the whole lot, washing it down with a large glass of water and then a strawberry and banana smoothie.
“That’s it!” he finally said, little short of an exclamation.
“What?” John asked looking up from the book he had borrowed off Sherlock’s shelf. It was mid-afternoon by now, the time rapidly approaching when they would need to leave. Conscious of that he had already made sure to pack up all this things, although he could not help but wonder how they would be getting everything back to the Dorchester, but more than that, how they would be able to manage it without being spotted. Having run away from the Slazenger party together was one thing, reappearing two days later still together would only raise more questions or speculation.
“That’s how he does it,” Sherlock said, now perched almost excitedly with his feet on the armchair. “Like a spider to the fly, he lures you in and then beats you at your own game. Loses unnecessary points on purpose, makes unforced errors, tricks you into thinking he’s more tired than he is, then bang, he snaps back, catches you unaware, makes those shots and suddenly you’re losing but you have no idea how or why. And after that it’s easy. Devious.”
Some of that, John theorised, probably made sense. In short, it seemed that Sherlock had figured out the key to beating his opponent, and that was all that mattered.
Sherlock returned to muttering, but smiling as he did so, quite clearly pleased with himself and shaking his head with a certain amount of fond amusement. John returned to reading The Hobbit.
Mrs Hudson popped up shortly after bearing a selection of homemade low fat flapjacks which turned out to be very nice indeed.
“What have the pair of you been doing?” she said chidingly, “punching that young man like that, and at a party and everything.”
“Hmmm?” Sherlock said finally looking up as he stole another flapjack from the plate.
“It’s all in today’s newspaper you know,” she said bringing over a copy of The Mail On Sunday who had in fact run the story, augmenting their previous online story with reports from “witnesses”, quotes apparently from “close friends” of those involved, before finishing with a picture of them taken the day before when they had been in Regent’s Park, laughing as they stretched following the first part of their run. The picture had been taken from a distance and then zoomed in by the editors, but it was undoubtedly them.
Apparently reports suggested that currently Anglo-French relations were surprisingly good, while Anglo-American ones were bruised. Well, John had to admit, it could have been worse.
“You really shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Sherlock said casually, “especially in something like that.” He crinkled up his nose.
“So that man didn’t deserve a punch then?” she said innocently.
“Oh, no,” Sherlock said mildly, “he certainly deserved that.”
“Well good then,” Mrs Hudson said. “I’m sure Mrs Turner will be relieved to know as well. Good luck on your matches tomorrow, boys, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Then she was gone. John could see how Sherlock could like her.
“So, uh,” John said, “what time will we be leaving and how will we be getting back? Taxi?”
“Car,” Sherlock said absently. “Mycroft will send one.”
Mycroft did in fact send one, accompanied by Lestrade.
“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked shutting away his laptop and zipping up the bag.
“You know why,” Lestrade said. “After your little stunt at the London Eye. I knew you’d come here you know. Bloody obvious. You both packed? John,” he said in acknowledgement.
Sherlock made some kind of disgruntled but affirmative noise.
“Good,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get things in the car.”
“John,” Sherlock said once Lestrade had disappeared down the stairs with the first of their bags. “This weekend has been… well, anyway, urm… what I mean is, urm….”
“Sherlock,” John said painfully aware of how awkward Sherlock was appearing, “it’s fine, really.”
Sherlock nodded before motioning to the part read book on the coffee table. “Take it,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll find the opportunity to read it at some point.”
“Oh, thanks,” he said. “That’s very good of you.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “I am hardly going to want to read it any time soon. Oh and before I forget, about that sock of yours.”
“Sock?” John asked.
“The… misplaced one. The one from the first night. I tend to find that looking up and sometimes behind you rather enlightening.”
John blinked as Sherlock then grabbed one of the bags and swept off down the stairs. Up and behind? He turned and then shook his head ruefully. Behind the door, on a small cupboard, at the base of the tall lamp, lay his missing sock.
*
End Part Four
*
4/10 - part 2
Previous part
*
“It was a car accident,” he finally said.
It had been the best part of forty minutes since Sherlock had arched over him and shuddered his way through orgasm. It was by far the most number of words either of them had said in that time, certainly in one go, most probably combined.
Shaking through the last vestiges of their climax they had clutched at each other wordlessly, the only sound the harsh panting as each tried to suck in enough air to fill their abused lungs. It was a moment, it was a thousand years, and then Sherlock was softening within him. The dark head of faintly damp hair lowered and he felt the warm breath against his shoulder before the brief soft caress of the Frenchman’s lips. Then Sherlock was pulling out, pulling away, dealing quickly with the condom before it became an issue.
Sherlock then disappeared, but returned shortly with a damp towel and a neutral but relaxed expression. He cleaned them both before straightening the bed covers somewhat and crawling in beside him, tugging the top sheet up and over them. There they lay, both thinking, neither speaking, the initial no touching turning into careless brushes until finally Sherlock’s fingers reached over to trace the faint scar on his shoulder, running along it and then back.
He could feel the unasked question, but in the growing dark and with the lethargy in his bones he had no way of fighting it, or at least no reason to. So closing his eyes he let the fingers trace their path and started to talk.
“But you already knew that,” he continued. “Everyone knows that. I was in a car accident and I almost completely wrecked my shoulder. I was out for a year and when I came back after months of rehabilitation, retraining and therapy, I was never quite the same. John Watson, the almost was.”
He let his voice trail off as the memories threatened to overwhelm him. The fingers though didn’t stop moving and focusing on that he pulled himself back.
“I crashed the car,” he finally said. “Everyone calls it an accident, and it was, I certainly didn’t plan to crash, but you never really plan these things, they just happen.”
Sherlock said nothing. He was glad for that, it was easier this way.
“His name was Bill. He was a friend, just a friend mind, but a good friend. My closest mate perhaps. We met randomly, through a friend of a friend, you know how it is. He was fun, the life and soul, larger than life sort of guy. We did stupid things together, pulled pranks, drank too much, that sort of thing. He was my wingman. Then I started to make it with my tennis and Bill qualified as a nurse, but we kept in touch. Went out for drinks when we could. He’d tease me about anything, asked me to set him up with a pretty blond Russian, that sort of thing. Then he surprised us all when he signed up for the army.”
More than a surprise, but that was Bill for you.
“We kept in touch still, then one day when I was back from having made it to the quarter finals in Australia, he told me they were shipping him out to Afghanistan and how fucking hilarious was that? Him in Afghanistan?
“We laughed about it, slapped him on the back, bought more drinks and life went on. I went to France, he went to Afghanistan. I played tennis, he saved people’s lives. I knocked balls around courts and complained about dodgy line calls, he knocked ration packs around and dodged bullets.
“Then I remember I was eleventh in the world and was about to break into the top ten for the first time. I was through to the last eight at the Valencia Open and everything was going well, then I got a phone call from Fiona, Bill’s long term girlfriend. Bill had been killed while travelling from Kandahar to Kabul.
“I remember sitting there with my phone in my hand no idea what to say. I mean, what do you say to something like that? Bill was dead and there I was alone in a bloody posh hotel room in Spain. I ended up hitting the bottle, because I had no idea what else to do, and because it’s always been a habit in my family. Have a problem? Drown it in alcohol. But even that wasn’t enough and I just needed to get away.
“I grabbed the car keys. It was a hire car, German make probably, can’t remember and it doesn’t matter. To make things worse I was tired, grieving and not exactly cold, hard sober, although it had only been the one beer. I really knew that I shouldn’t but I was alone and needed to escape and there was no one there to tell me how stupid I was being.
“Thank god there was no one else around. I knew the moment I lost control. In that split second as the car started to spin I knew that that was it. I was certain I was about to die. In that instant I remember saying, ‘Please God, let me live.’ Then the car smashed into that tree.
“They told me I was lucky it was just my shoulder I busted. Serious but there was every chance I would recover enough to play again. Play again? As if that was the most important thing. Bill was dead and the most important thing in my life was how well I could hit a yellow ball with a racket. I suppose that was when I lost it. Tennis didn’t mean quite so much anymore. Not compared to life and death. I only went back to it because I had nothing else, it was everything I knew. So here I am, finally at the end of my career and I have no idea what I’m going to do.”
He scrubbed his hands across his face.
He had never told anyone all of that, not Harry, not Mike, not even his therapist. They all knew the facts of course, but no one had ever put the whole thing together. Tennis was his life, had been for 25 years, it just wasn’t, well, life or death.
Sherlock’s fingers left his shoulder and he felt the other man shift against him. They lay like that in silence, in the dark, close but not quite touching.
“Jim Moriarty is the reason for all my security,” Sherlock finally said breaking the stillness. “He’s the reason for most of my brother’s concern. He’s the reason I lost the French Open.”
John remembered the French Open final. It had been Sherlock verses Moriarty, with the Frenchman tipped to win in front of his home crowd, wanting to win, expected to win. Instead Moriarty had won, beating Sherlock in four sets, the last one completely destroying the Frenchman’s game.
“I’ve been receiving phone calls, letters, notes, messages, texts, everything. It’s like he’s obsessed with me. Ever since…” his voice trailed off.
“A few years ago he approached me with a proposition. He wanted the two of us to team up as a doubles pair. It was only a few months after I had parted from my previous doubles and practice partner. I, of course, told him I wasn’t interested. I wanted to concentrate on my singles play. Doubles had given me more exposure in competitions, and as such more experience, but once I was reaching quarter and semi-finals I didn’t need it any more. It had become more of a hindrance than a benefit. So I declined his offer. It was hardly a difficult choice. He, however, has apparently taken it rather badly. He is under the impression we would have been unbeatable, dominating the doubles and topping the world ratings for both doubles and individuals. He is possibly correct, but one of us would have had to have come second. Something that neither of our egos would have been able to cope with.”
His voice trailed off and they continued to lay there, each minute that past drifting them closer and closer to sleep.
“John?”
He pulled himself just far enough out of sleep to respond with a, “Hmmmm?”
There was another pause where he wondered if Sherlock had changed his mind or had maybe fallen asleep himself. Then he heard it.
“Thank you,” he heard softly. “For telling me about your shoulder.” And then that was it.
“That’s okay,” he mumbled in return. “It’s okay,” and then it was over, their conversation in the dark over and they finally succumbed to sleep.
*
“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock suddenly said out of nowhere.
They were in the main room, Sherlock having been sat in an armchair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin in silence for the past half an hour at least.
“Hmmm, yes,” John said, carefully putting down the mug of tea he had just made the other man. “My next opponent. What about him?”
He took a seat in the other chair, sipping his own drink. He was feeling remarkably fine following the events of the night before, any residual twinges or discomfort having already faded, partially helped at least by the proficient blowjob Sherlock had treated him to that morning. He had wanted to return the favour but Sherlock had said it wasn’t necessary and not on the day before a match anyway. That had at least confirmed it to be their last sexual encounter of the weekend, although he deeply hoped it would not be their last ever. That, on the other hand, could well depend upon him managing to beat his next opponent, one Victor Trevor.
“What do you know about him?” Sherlock asked.
He shrugged. “Australian. Twelfth seed. Right handed. Two handed backhand.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said. “Ever played him?”
“Couple of times.”
“And?”
“He beat me, both times.”
“Surface?”
“Hard, I think.”
“You think.”
He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Alright, yes, fine, hard, both times.” Once in Australia, once in Toronto if he recalled correctly.
Sherlock’s lips curled up. “Good,” he said. He went back to his thinking before suddenly getting to his feet, crossing the room and riffling through a box. After a moment he seemed to find what he was looking for, pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and slapped something onto his forearm.
John stared not quite believing what he was seeing as Sherlock then flung himself back down, fingers once more back under his chin.
“Is that,” he started, “is that a nicotine patch?” He hoped it was because the alternatives were far, far worse.
“Yes,” Sherlock said bluntly. “Helps me think.”
Right, he thought, tapping his fingers against the chair arm. “You smoke?” he said more out of surprise and the need to say something that anything else.
“No, I patch,” Sherlock said. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in professional sport now days.”
“So you, uh, used to smoke?”
“Remnants of a misguided youth. I fortunately discovered a rather different and more pleasurable distraction before I could succumb to experimenting with harder and more dangerous drugs than tobacco.”
“Harder drugs?” he repeated. “What like heroin or cocaine you mean?”
“Cocaine most probably,” Sherlock admitted easily. “Heroin has never interested me.”
“Right,” he said. “Had much of a wild youth then?”
“Not compared to some and hardly as wild as it could have been.”
“And the distraction you found?” he asked. “Tennis?”
“Sex.”
“Right.” He really shouldn’t have asked. “Okay.”
“Victor Trevor.”
He blinked as his brain took a moment to follow Sherlock’s change in topic.
“Twenty-seven years old, six foot one, no Grand Slams but finalist in Australia in 2002 and 2004. Nine career titles, highest ranking fourth in the world, 2004. Good accurate serve but not the fastest, so therefore returnable. High first serve percentage, quick player with good overall court skills and excellent long forehand. Weaknesses include close net play and frustration leading to unforced errors in longer rallies. Prefers hard courts, not the best history on grass but will be going into the match the clear favourite and therefore expected to win. That can be used against him, but it could take time and perhaps luck, but is by no means impossible.”
Sherlock returned to his fingers to under his chin.
“That’s brilliant,” John said, tea forgotten as he stared at the Frenchman.
“Obvious,” Sherlock said.
“Maybe, but how do you know all that?”
“I am very familiar with his history, style and game,” Sherlock said. “For a while we were partners.”
Partners? “Uh, when you say partners, is that practice, doubles or uh, you know, off the court.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said in what he was obviously meant to take as the answer to all three. “Problem?”
“No,” he said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. “So you’re giving me advice on how to defeat your ex?”
Sherlock made a disagreeing sound. “Stop sentimentalising it. This is to do with benefits and convenience. It is in both of our best interests that you win and proceed to the next round. Who your opponent is is of little relevance in this respect. Don’t cloud it with unnecessary emotion. To do so is both distracting and dangerous.”
“Okay,” John said. “So tell me, how would you suggest I beat him, taking into consideration that he’s younger, fitter and faster than me.”
“But not necessarily better,” Sherlock added. “He is faster yes, but he will tire and when he does he makes mistakes. Play short shots, pull him into the net where he is weakest. Make him play the game he doesn’t want to. Be patient in rallies, don’t go for the quick risky shot, play safe and steady. The longer the rally goes on for the more likely he is to try something and make a mistake. When you find what works keep doing it. Try always to return, this will frustrate him, but return only within reason. There is little point in exhausting yourself senselessly. Frustrate him and when he finally cracks, watch his game deteriorate and drive home the advantage.”
When he said it all like that it sounded so very simple.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” John said. “Thanks.” Then, “Who are you playing?”
“Jefferson Hope.”
The name rang a bell. “Small guy, crafty, plays as if you have an option of shot but somehow always seems to know which one you’re going to make?”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said clearly in thought.
“Every played him before?”
“First time for everything.”
“Think you’ll beat him?”
“Undoubtedly. I just have to figure him out.”
With that Sherlock grabbed his laptop and started pulling up video files, scribbling away on a notebook with a frown.
John left him to it, interrupting him only to put a Greek lettuce and couscous salad with a selection of cold meats and cheeses in front of him for their lunch. Sherlock’s thanks was vague, consumed as he was with his work, but he ate the whole lot, washing it down with a large glass of water and then a strawberry and banana smoothie.
“That’s it!” he finally said, little short of an exclamation.
“What?” John asked looking up from the book he had borrowed off Sherlock’s shelf. It was mid-afternoon by now, the time rapidly approaching when they would need to leave. Conscious of that he had already made sure to pack up all this things, although he could not help but wonder how they would be getting everything back to the Dorchester, but more than that, how they would be able to manage it without being spotted. Having run away from the Slazenger party together was one thing, reappearing two days later still together would only raise more questions or speculation.
“That’s how he does it,” Sherlock said, now perched almost excitedly with his feet on the armchair. “Like a spider to the fly, he lures you in and then beats you at your own game. Loses unnecessary points on purpose, makes unforced errors, tricks you into thinking he’s more tired than he is, then bang, he snaps back, catches you unaware, makes those shots and suddenly you’re losing but you have no idea how or why. And after that it’s easy. Devious.”
Some of that, John theorised, probably made sense. In short, it seemed that Sherlock had figured out the key to beating his opponent, and that was all that mattered.
Sherlock returned to muttering, but smiling as he did so, quite clearly pleased with himself and shaking his head with a certain amount of fond amusement. John returned to reading The Hobbit.
Mrs Hudson popped up shortly after bearing a selection of homemade low fat flapjacks which turned out to be very nice indeed.
“What have the pair of you been doing?” she said chidingly, “punching that young man like that, and at a party and everything.”
“Hmmm?” Sherlock said finally looking up as he stole another flapjack from the plate.
“It’s all in today’s newspaper you know,” she said bringing over a copy of The Mail On Sunday who had in fact run the story, augmenting their previous online story with reports from “witnesses”, quotes apparently from “close friends” of those involved, before finishing with a picture of them taken the day before when they had been in Regent’s Park, laughing as they stretched following the first part of their run. The picture had been taken from a distance and then zoomed in by the editors, but it was undoubtedly them.
Apparently reports suggested that currently Anglo-French relations were surprisingly good, while Anglo-American ones were bruised. Well, John had to admit, it could have been worse.
“You really shouldn’t believe everything you read,” Sherlock said casually, “especially in something like that.” He crinkled up his nose.
“So that man didn’t deserve a punch then?” she said innocently.
“Oh, no,” Sherlock said mildly, “he certainly deserved that.”
“Well good then,” Mrs Hudson said. “I’m sure Mrs Turner will be relieved to know as well. Good luck on your matches tomorrow, boys, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Then she was gone. John could see how Sherlock could like her.
“So, uh,” John said, “what time will we be leaving and how will we be getting back? Taxi?”
“Car,” Sherlock said absently. “Mycroft will send one.”
Mycroft did in fact send one, accompanied by Lestrade.
“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked shutting away his laptop and zipping up the bag.
“You know why,” Lestrade said. “After your little stunt at the London Eye. I knew you’d come here you know. Bloody obvious. You both packed? John,” he said in acknowledgement.
Sherlock made some kind of disgruntled but affirmative noise.
“Good,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get things in the car.”
“John,” Sherlock said once Lestrade had disappeared down the stairs with the first of their bags. “This weekend has been… well, anyway, urm… what I mean is, urm….”
“Sherlock,” John said painfully aware of how awkward Sherlock was appearing, “it’s fine, really.”
Sherlock nodded before motioning to the part read book on the coffee table. “Take it,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll find the opportunity to read it at some point.”
“Oh, thanks,” he said. “That’s very good of you.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “I am hardly going to want to read it any time soon. Oh and before I forget, about that sock of yours.”
“Sock?” John asked.
“The… misplaced one. The one from the first night. I tend to find that looking up and sometimes behind you rather enlightening.”
John blinked as Sherlock then grabbed one of the bags and swept off down the stairs. Up and behind? He turned and then shook his head ruefully. Behind the door, on a small cupboard, at the base of the tall lamp, lay his missing sock.
*
End Part Four
*